


Your People Will Be My People

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Series: Paternoster Row: the spinoff [12]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenny and Vastra are planning their wedding. But it wouldn't be a special occasion without a mystery to solve. Our heroines might need a time machine to get everything done before they tie the knot...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your People Will Be My People

**Author's Note:**

> One more story in Season Two to write, so to celebrate, have some fic! My goal is to have Season Two published by the time the next season of Doctor Who starts in August, with Season Three to come some time after the season finale airs.

“It is quite a charming garden,” Vastra agrees. “Do you wish to look at the chapel in town as well?”

“Might as well, while we're here,” Jenny admits, linking arms with her intended. “Can't say I'm opposed to getting married in a church—tend to be rather pretty buildings. And we wouldn't have to worry about the weather if the ceremony's indoors.”

“It is getting a bit breezy,” Vastra notes, pulling her shawl more closely about her shoulders, just as a familiar wheezing noise began. “Oh dear,” she sighs. “I am afraid that it is not a normal breeze.” She and Jenny turn just as the TARDIS materializes behind them. Nothing too dangerous, Vastra prays. I don't want to get killed before our wedding.

“Hello!” the Doctor calls, voice jaunty. “You know, I have been looking all over Victorian England for you two,” he tells them. “What brings you out here, eh? Counterfeiters in the countryside? Small town Zygons?” He rubs his hands together giddily.

“Nothing of the sort,” Vastra tells him. “Jenny and I were performing reconnaissance, it is true. But we are scouting out nothing more dangerous than the location for our wedding.”

“Oh, that's brilliant news!” he exclaims, drawing them into a hug. “Mind, last time I was at a wedding, the world nearly ended. Time before that, well, the world had just almost ended. Time before that some bloke called the Trickster nearly ruined everything. And the time before that I had to stop the Racnoss from destroying humanity.” He scratched his chin. “No, nothing safe about a wedding. Better luck this time, I hope. Brilliant, brilliant news,” he repeats over their worried faces. “Congratulations and felicitations!”

“Thank you,” Jenny says. “What brings you out here, Doctor?”

“Oh, just some temporal anomalies, nothing important,” he waves his hand and gestures them aboard the TARDIS. “Have you picked out a dress yet? I know just the place.”

“I cannot say that we have,” Vastra says cautiously. The Doctor's dress sense is, frankly, a bit daft. Reluctantly, she closes the TARDIS door behind her. “What was that about temporal anomalies?”

“Oh, someone using a time-tunneler, most likely. Smelled a bit like Dalek technology,” he adds, taking a deep breath of the flowers before spinning into his police box. “Everything seemed to lead back to these coordinates, so naturally I thought I'd ask you.”

“Oh, that,” Jenny says with a grin and a dismissive wave. “Took care of all that, thanks. Good of you to check in, though. What's one little old Dalek, after all?” 

“Dear little Jenny Flint! How you've grown!” the Doctor marvels as he dances with his ship. “Seems like only yesterday you were so high and thwarting the plans of renegade Time Ladies. Well, okay, that is a bit impressive, if I don't say so myself.” He beams and tugs on his bowtie. “But honestly, look at you! All grown up and marrying your wealthy, mysterious employer! All very Jane Eyre! Has Lottie written that yet? I really must pay her and her sisters another visit. Lovely girls. Not as much of the dressing in boys' clothes as you might expect, given the pseudonyms; sorry to disappoint, Jenny. Which reminds me!” he continues, breaking off his digression and pumping a piston. “Lady Thorafine's Boutique and Dressmakers!” With a sweeping bow, he opens the door of the TARDIS to reveal a vast array of fabric. As he straightens up, the foundations of the shop rattle. “Might have forgotten to check for civil unrest. Might be a tyrant to overthrow, or a would-be tyrannical uprising to put down, can't remember. Either way, shouldn't take but a mo'. Be right back!” 

“Just like him to swan off at the drop of a hat,” Jenny scoffs.

“To the Doctor, such an injury to a hat is a grave offense indeed,” Vastra reminds her with a chuckle. She examines one particularly complex garment. “Oh dear: I fear this one is designed for someone with tentacles.”

“Excuse me,” Jenny says, tapping a clerk on the shoulder. “Have you got anything more our size?”

“Oh my,” the salesgirl—Kivvi, her badge indicates—laughs and turns purple. “You're very lost indeed! Upright biped is this way—it's quite the hike.”

“Deep breaths, madame,” Jenny reminds her as they follow dutifully along, wondering at the different fabrics and configurations.

“Who are we looking for today?” Kivvi chirps. Actually chirps, Jenny muses; she has a beak in place of a mouth. 

“We are not sure,” Vastra admits. “It is for our wedding, and we have not decided who will wear a dress.”

“Congratulations!” the girl tells them. “The three of us just got hitched two months ago,” she flashes a pair of rings on her left hand. “My wife didn't think a dress would suit her, but we found her one that really brought out the lavender in her hair.” She smiles rather engrossingly (which is even more impressive given her beak). “Let's just look around, and see if there's anything that suits either of you.”

The trio wanders through racks of chiffon and lace until Vastra spots something that makes her jaw drop. “Goodness, Jenny,” she whispers, “look at her.” She should really feel worse about staring at the woman given her background, but Jenny's eyes go wide as well, and even the clerk's skin turns a bright shade of fuchsia which Vastra deduces signals arousal. The woman in question is tall, taller even than Vastra's martial bearing, with willowy limbs and cerulean skin and long seafoam and silver hair that runs down her back. Vastra has come to appreciate hair in species that have it, though Jenny is so often shaving, plucking, or tying up her own that Vastra will touch it any chance she gets. Now she curls the fingers of one hand in Jenny's hair to tug her lover's ear closer to her own mouth so she can whisper: “I wouldn't leave you for her...but I hope you don't mind that I look.”

“Not at all,” Jenny manages through dry lips. “You want to try to talk her into a threesome?”

“Jenny!” Vastra's eyes widen in surprise, but she cannot help but think that the idea has some merit.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Jenny replies, and heads off briskly to introduce herself. “Hello, I'm Jenny Flint, of Earth. And this is my fiancee, Vastra.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the woman replies with practiced politeness. “I am sorry; I did not expect to encounter a foreign delegate in these circumstances.”

“I beg your pardon,” Vastra says, crests flaring. “We are strangers in these parts, visiting with a friend. We are not delegates, but detectives, though I fear that we know you not.”

The marvelous woman pales to turquoise. “No, I must beg your pardon; I have grown used to assuming that all have heard my name, for I am Princess Eruwyn, and my pending marriage of alliance to Duke Zaffir is the talk of three star systems in both political and social circles.” She pales again and covers her face in what Vastra assumes is some gesture of modesty. “I, too, am shopping for my wedding gown—it is only by traveling quietly and alone that I can evade the more obsessive members of the public.” Probably not up for a threesome, then, Jenny thinks.

Vastra nods. “We, too, know the value of discretion. Many of our clients are in similar positions of power and sensitivity.”

“Is this Duke bloke going to make you happy?” Jenny asks bluntly. So much for discretion, Vastra thinks. “You shouldn't have to marry someone you don't fancy just to make the rest of the world run smoothly. Lord knows I'm not.”

“That may be so for even a very famous detective,” Eruwyn allows. “However a princess must think of her duty first,” she concludes, drawing herself up to her full height, imposing despite her lack of girth. “But all that said, I do rather love Zaffir,” she admits, skirt flaring about her knees as she twirls with delight. “Things just went so well during the peace negotiations, and now I should not trade him for my pick of a dozen galaxies.” Definitely not game to be seduced, Jenny concludes. Eruwyn laughs prettily. “I do seem to be having good luck in chance companions these days; do tell me more about yourselves.”

“We live in a city called London, in the late 19th century,” Vastra begins. “Despite having a woman married to her first cousin on the throne, ours is an age noted for repressive sexual mores and the economic and social inferiority of its women.”

“Dear me!” Eruwyn laughs merrily. “You must be recluses to live in safety! I thought you said you were famed detectives!”

“We are,”Jenny retorts, somewhat indignantly. “We're trying to change things, mind. Dr. Doyle writes our adventures up on the regular, though you'd hardly recognize us under the liberties he takes.” She wrinkles her brow. “Mind, I don't think he quite knows what we do on our own time.”

Vastra explains to Eruwyn's confused face. “We publicly present the facade of mistress and maid, employer and assistant. We do put some little effort into maintaining this shell, though I often wonder how much of our success is owed to our acting ability, and how much to the unconscious—or even willful—self-deception of our audience.”

Eruwyn shakes her head in dismay. “Believe me, such things are familiar to me in the realm of politics. But I cannot help but pry: did you mean Arthur Conan Doyle?”

Vastra blinks. “Yes, yes I did. Do you know him?”

“Not personally. But when one encounters two people from Victorian England who happen to share a passion for solving mysteries and each other, who then claim that said mysteries are adapted into well-known stories by a Dr. Doyle, why, one does not have to be Sherlock Holmes to know what is going on.” Eruwyn smiles smugly at her two new acquaintances, who are both floored by the possibility that someday they shall have intergalactic fame, gender-bent or no. “Come, let us find you a dress, for I must soon be off—star clusters won't run themselves, you know.” The store rumbles again, louder this time. “I do wonder what all the ruckus is,” she muses.

“Haven't the faintest,” Jenny replies, inwardly wincing.

Nearly two hours pass, unevenly punctuated by the odd boom and bang, and Eruwyn finds a long, sleeveless, silver robe that picks up the highlights in her hair and shows off her wiry arms to full advantage. Meanwhile, Jenny develops a somewhat grudging affection for an embroidered, lacy white gown. “My dear, it is gorgeous, but it is rather the last thing I should have expected you to choose.”

“If I'm going to be looking all fine and feminine for a day,” Jenny declares, “I might as well look a proper lady and go whole hog.”

Vastra smiles. “In that case, I think the dress suits you far better than those last two phrases do each other,” she teases.

Eruwyn glances at a clock and gasps. “I hate to leave on such short notice,” she apologizes, “but I must tend to my duties.”

“Of course, of course,” Jenny replies.

“I shall hope to keep in touch,” Eruwyn promises.

As she leaves, the Doctor catches up with them. “There you two are! Looking for ages.”

“Doctor,” Vastra begins, as politely as she can manage because Jenny is doubled over laughing, “why, pray tell, are you wearing a bonnet?”

“Because bonnets are cool,” he replies, and continues as his smirk fades. “And, frankly, the revolution got a bit off-track in the middle just as I was trying to work my way back over here; it's complicated, but then, I'd like to see you infiltrate the last stronghold of the old guard which just happened to be in a fancy-dress shop. So yes, I wore a bonnet.” He scowls. 

“Is that what we were hearing, then?” Vastra asks mildly.

“Sorry, yes.” He chuckles, embarrassed. “Price of progress. All sorted now, though. Nobody could decide on who should lead, so in a stroke of genius, I just pointed at this random purple bird bird and said 'hey, what about her?' She went all kinds of maroon, but finally we talked her into it. So we rang up her spouses and told them the good news! Brilliant, brilliant stuff. And here we are on the first day of the reign of the Majestic Triumvirate.” He laughs. “Queen Kivvi and co, long may they reign.” Jenny and Vastra exchange amused looks. They had rather wondered where the charming shopgirl had gotten to, and now she was running the country. The Doctor's face suddenly turns worried. “I didn't mess up your afternoon, did I? A good revolution gets my blood up, you know, and all of a sudden it's freedom this, democracy that, protect the rights of the oppressed while ensuring a peaceful transition the other thing,” he babbles.

“Quite successful, in fact,” Jenny says, showing her dress.

The Doctor narrows his eyes distastefully. “Bit small for the two of you, unless it is dimensionally transcendent...” He whips out the sonic screwdriver, but Jenny cuts him off.

“It's just for me, thanks.” Crisis averted, she thinks. God only knows what that thing will do to her dress. She thinks it's silk, but it easily could be some alien fabric.

“Going for the au naturel look, then?” he asks, turning to Vastra. “More dignified than a lot of people give it credit for. Why, the third time I got married...” He trails off under Vastra's glare, equal parts anguished and frustrated. He coughs. “I take it you had something else in mind, then.”

“I was thinking how nice it would be to wear my old dress uniform,” she explains. 

“I know just the military-surplus store,” the Doctor says with a wink, and this expedition is far more regimented. Vastra gives her rank and measurements to the proprietor, who wheels back into the shelves and racks and stacks of clothing, weapons, and memorabilia and comes back with a complete uniform in excellent condition across his lap. 

“It's perfect,” Vastra admits. For all his maddening flaws, the Doctor makes a far better friend than enemy.

“Least I can do for the happy couple,” he replies. “Very exciting, these little moments. Where can I drop you off?” Seconds later, they touch down, back in the garden. “Ta ta,” he calls as they walk away. “Ponds to collect! I'll be in touch!”

Vastra blinks; she never will get used to time-travel. It has clearly been no more than a few moments for the garden, but she and Jenny have been away for several hours. “Did you want to visit the church in town?” she asks.

“Not just yet,” Jenny says. “We should put these things back in our room, and then get something to eat.”

“I'm not terribly hungry yet,” Vastra points out.

“No, but I expect we will be,” Jenny replies. “I never could resist a girl in uniform.” 

***

Doyle pays them a visit soon afterward, and Jenny's dress is still hanging in plain view. “Why, I didn't know you were engaged!” he cries. Vastra and Jenny eye each other suspiciously. They hadn't told Doyle yet, not being sure how he'd react, and indeed, there hadn't been the time. He pauses. “Why, I suppose I don't even know who the dress is for.”

“It's my dress,” Jenny says carefully.

“You know, I was rather thinking of marrying Watson off...” His voice trails away. “You don't mind if I run off and brainstorm a bit, do you?”

Vastra sighs. “I just did not have the heart to tell him that I was going to wear my dress uniform.”

“We'll have to tell him one of these days,” Jenny reminds her. “Probably rude to find out for the first time on the invitation.”

“Well, at least the young ones both know and approve,” Vastra said with a shrug. “And I doubt that Strax fully understands nonviolent interpersonal relationships.”

***

Elsewhere, Nellie, Henry, and Anaya are discussing just that while keeping an eye on the Sanders children so that Allison, Janet, and Greg can get some things done around town. “It's really very romantic how in love they are,” Nellie declares. “Not quite enough to make me question my devotion to the male of the species, Anaya,” she adds with a twinkle in her eye.

“Worse luck,” Anaya replies in kind. She hardly minds, since Mirabelle is still making her extremely happy. Henry certainly welcomes the news. “You can hardly blame me for wanting to double my odds,” she continues with a grin, mock-pursuing Nellie across the room. “And I must say, we make each other extremely happy.”

“All the same, I think I'll give my love life a bit of rest for the time being,” Nellie decides. “I've got Neville to care for, now, and family to spend time with. Not to mention keeping up with you lot, and helping my laundry ladies put their lives back together,” she laughs. “Goodness me, I shall be busy. Though that's not to say that if the right boy or girl comes along...” she teases, swooning into Anaya's arms, “that I couldn't be talked into it.” 

Henry dutifully chuckles at the joke. He can hardly blame her...but still. He sighs to himself. “It's almost a shame that getting married won't make them proper and respectable,” he observes, changing the subject.

“If they wanted to be proper and respectable, they wouldn't be consulting detectives, or consorting with the lower classes, or any number of other things,” Anaya points out lightly.

“And there really is something romantic about that, in the old sense,” Nellie continues. “Struggling against the bonds of society! Overcoming all obstacles in the name of true love!”

“Good to see you haven't lost your sense of the melodramatic in your time away,” Henry says with a laugh.

Nellie shrugs. “I could see where you might think that I have been ground down, so to speak. But that's when I clung to my dreams the hardest, when my fantasies became the most real, when I lost myself in castles of stardust and wild jungles.” She smiles softly. “If you're happy where you are, then why would you want to leave?”

***

“And that,” Vastra concludes, “proves that he is the murderer. Take him away, Inspector.”

“You never cease to amaze, Madame Vastra,” Inspector Allenby marvels. “A murderer betrayed by the mud on his boots.”

“Jenny and I are observant and intelligent, nothing more,” Vastra replies modestly. Allenby nods curtly, and leads his man away in irons, leaving Jenny and Vastra in their drawing room. Once they are alone, a tall woman with an elaborate hairstyle enters.

“Forgive me for intruding,” she implores the detectives, “but I am at an utter loss.”

Vastra cocks her head. “You will, in turn, forgive me, for though there is something familiar about your voice, I cannot place your face. Too, though you are out of breath as if from long travel, your wardrobe shows no sign of the journey.”

“Ah!” the stranger claps her forehead with realization. “I had forgotten my perception filter,” she declaims, and switches off the device.

“Princess Eruwyn,” Jenny says with a curtsey. “I recognized you at once from your voice and stride.” She winks at Vastra. “To what do we owe the honor, milady?” Jenny has not been trained as a maid for high-brow families for nothing, and the experience comes back quickly.

“You must forgive me for presuming on such short acquaintance,” she begins, “but I know not who I may trust among my people.” Vastra and Jenny share a concerned look as Eruwyn continues. “I have had the pleasure of reading Dr. Doyle's books. Before I engage you on this...delicate...matter, I must know: are you as skilled as your fictional counterparts?”

“My dear princess,” Vastra assures her, “we are more talented by far.” She smiles softly, and gestures for Eruwyn to sit. She sprawls gracefully across a loveseat, long limbs taking up an uncanny amount of room. “Now that you have taken your weight off your feet, pray, lift the weight which burdens your spirit.”

“You recall that I am to marry Duke Zaffir to cement a peace treaty between our star systems, and that the man is also my true love?” Jenny and Vastra nod, and Eruwyn sobs. “He has gone missing. Neither our local constables nor the intergalactic police have been able to locate him. And now the wedding is in two days.”

“Your Majesty,” Jenny assures Eruwyn, handing her a handkerchief for her tears, “you may rely upon us in utmost confidence. If you bring us to your ship, we shall begin at once.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Eruwyn begins, climbing to her feet. “I shall explain further on the trip.” As they leave, they pass Strax. The sight of a Sontaran quite naturally unnerves her.

“It's only Strax, our butler. And hired gun,” Jenny explains.

“Quite harmless, then?” Eruwyn asks.

“Relatively speaking,” Vastra hedges. “Though he may be of some use: step lively, Strax.”

“And which of Doyle's cast of characters is he?” Eruwyn asks, blushing. “I must say, I am quite the fan.”

Jenny's eyes go wide, but her smile is amused. She had never considered the question before. “Mrs. Hudson?” she ventures.

***

“I am from the planet Camline, and Zaffir is from Feldak; the resort planet of Aquilae III was chosen as a suitable neutral site for our nuptials,” Eruwyn reveals. “My love was to leave on a private cruiser from Feldak to Aquilae last night and arrive this morning. According to the servants and crew on board the ship, he arrived at the scheduled time, announced that he was quite tired from the day's preparations, and ordered that none disturb him while he slept. He then retreated to his private quarters and the craft took off moments later.”

“Did anyone see him after takeoff?” Vastra asks.

“No,” Eruwyn replies, “but he could not have left while it was in flight—all of the escape pods were still in place, and no loss of pressure was recorded.”

“Hm,” Vastra hums, and steeples her fingers. 

“The sensors could have malfunctioned,” Jenny points out.

“Or been sabotaged,” Strax chimes in.

“I suppose that is a possibility,” Vastra allows. “Still, go on.”

“No craft were detected on the voyage for some secret rendezvous, and there was no trace of the Duke once it arrived.”

“What about the other people who were on the ship, or who did the search?” Jenny asks. 

“All of unimpeachable character,” Eruwyn replies, shaking her head.

Vastra reclines in the surprisingly comfortable ship's chair. “I always demand facts before theories. But in this case I must know: what do you fear has happened to your fiance?”

Eruwyn sighs and begins to count on slender fingers. “There are, of course, all the usual attendant dangers of being a noble: held for ransom, murdered by a political rival, even taken by an unscrupulous admirer. There are, of course, those who desire war,” she glances uncomfortably at Strax, “between our peoples, and who would see disrupting the treaty process, even at this late stage, as a way to rekindle tensions.” She sighs.

“You have told us much,” Vastra begins. “But not, I expect, all.”

“Very well, very well. Before I met Zaffir, I had a lover.” She pauses. I hope she isn't waiting for us to be outraged, Jenny thinks. “We had a relatively short, but extremely passionate romance. While I remember him fondly, we are no longer lovers.” She pauses again, sighing this time. “I admit, I was very young then, and so I thought little of the fact that my love had a reputation for being something of a mischief maker, or of the fact that I had given him several letters, photographs, and videos of a most...piquant nature. But now I fear that he may use them to cause trouble without even realizing it.” She sighs again. “If he has, then I should wish that I had never met the Doctor.”

Jenny and Vastra both burst out coughing and choking; Strax prepares to resuscitate them, standing at the ready. “I beg your pardon,” Jenny asks. “Did you say your lover was the Doctor?”

“Oh yes,” Eruwyn says. Her skin fades to sky blue. Well, Earth sky, at any rate, Jenny thinks. Or at least, the sky outside of London, she amends. “Do you know him?” she asks innocently.

“Princess Eruwyn,” Vastra says, once she has recovered to the point to fix the alien with a steely glare, “I have had the good fortune to meet countless doctors, men and women of science and philosophy, of medicine and all fields of learning. Distinguished, wise, and knowledgeable, every one. But only one in all of time and space so predominates over those who share his title as to need no other name. Yes, Princess Eruwyn, I believe I know him.”

“Can you contact him? Please? I should never have thought that I should be more desperate to see him now than when I was in the throes of passion.”

Jenny rolls her eyes. “The Doctor'll show up when he pleases and not a moment sooner. I'd think he'd have more on his plate than showing dirty pictures to some stranger...but I know the Doctor. I sure as blazes don't understand him.”

Eruwyn frets with her hands. “Then what now? Shall we return to his homeworld to join the manhunt? Retrace the flight of his cruiser to see if there are any traces that may have been missed? Or perhaps you would prefer to comb over the ship itself?”

“Is there security footage of the spaceport which the Duke was set to depart from?” Vastra asks.

“Yes, of course.” Eruwyn frowns. “But I have been over every frame myself—there is no sign of my beloved.”

“What is the layout of the spaceport?” Vastra asks.

“There is a central hub, where baggage is checked, and passengers pass through a security checkpoint. Then there are three main concourses leading away from the hub, each with eight berths, four on each side.” With a flick of her fingers, a hologram depicting the layout of the spaceport appears before them. Eruwyn twists her fingers, and the hologram zooms in on the leftmost concourses. “Zaffir was to leave from Concourse A, Berth 3.”

“Hardly a defensible position,” Strax scoffs. 

“Strax!” Jenny chides him as Eruwyn frets that someone may have launched an armed incursion.

“If you know,” Vastra asks, raising her voice to a practiced pitch above the tumult, “Where do the security cameras cover, and where were the ships in the adjacent berths heading?” Eruwyn raises a curious eyebrow, but calls up a list of destinations. “And do any of those names mean anything in particular to you?”

“Well, the cameras mostly film the hub and the concourse, but there are only a few on the exterior, in part because there is a well-patrolled security perimeter which has not been breached.” She scans the list of destinations. “Well, Camline...” she observes. “But why would he want to go to such lengths just to see me? In two days we would have been married!”

“I cannot say why, only that it is extremely likely, and that your last question may soon answer itself.” Vastra tells her. “Jenny, have you been following my reasoning? This chain calls for a bit more intuition than I might like, but the links seem solid enough.”

Jenny frowns. “Mostly been thinking up hare-brained theories again, madame. But I'll see what I can do, now that I know where I'm going.” She takes a deep breath. “So the Duke isn't on the ship when it arrives, and there's no evidence that he left while it was in flight. Not conclusive, but you'd infer that either there's some combination of conspiracy and technical fault...or he wasn't on the ship when it took off.” She grins. “Figured that was what you were after when you asked if anyone had seen the Duke after they'd left, madame.” Vastra inclines her head with a small smile. “Now we know where he isn't, so where is he? Either he was kidnapped, or he left of his own free will. Based on the spaceport's security features, he didn't leave on foot, unless he was heavily disguised or otherwise concealed, which remains a possibility. That means he took another ship, preferably one nearby. The only destination you recognized was Camline, which makes an enemy less likely, though the Duke could have been moved to some other planet first as a blind. At any rate, there were no signs of enemy infiltration, either of the spaceport or the ship itself.”

“To summarize, if I may: either the Duke has been taken by an undetectable enemy force and has been shipped to the far reaches of the galaxy, or he left of his own free will for Camline.” Vastra's eyes twinkle. “May I advise Your Majesty to send messengers to you and the Duke's favorite meeting-places with all haste?” Eruwyn's eyes widen, but she activates her ship's comm system and begins issuing orders. “May I also advise Your Majesty,” Vastra continues, “to listen to what your paramour found necessary to go to such lengths to say with open ears and an open mind.”

***

An hour later, they arrive at the Princess's palace on Camline. Awaiting them is the squat, scaly figure of Duke Zaffir, his tail twitching nervously from side to side. “I must apologize—” the Duke begins before Eruwyn interrupts him with an embrace, followed by a slap.

“I have been worrying constantly since you went missing,” she tells him. “Now explain.”

“I had hoped to meet you here, privately, before our wedding,” he begins, “but you had already left for Aquilae III yourself.”

“Why not speak to me there?” Eruwyn asks.

Zaffir draws a deep breath, and, finally composed, says: “Because on Aquilae, I would have been Duke Zaffir. What I need to say, I must say as my true self.” Everyone save the unflappable Strax gasps. The erstwhile duke bows. “My lady, my true name is Kefiz. By trade, I am a humble mechanic. However, these past years I have been hired by Duke Zaffir to act as his body double.” He continues, as everyone else is too stunned to say anything coherent. “As you must know, a planetary noble faces many dangers, and, as the current Duke of Feldak is rather reclusive, he found it best to employ an imposter for his public appearances, offering input as necessary though a small speaker concealed in the ear.”

Eruwyn, at last, breaks the silence. “Are you the one with whom I fell in love over the negotiating table? During state dinners? In clandestine, stolen meetings? Or am I to be wed to an earpiece?”

“My lady,” Kefiz proclaims, taking her hands, “I was the one who said those things to you; I am the one who pledged his heart to yours. The Duke prefers to live alone, with his mistresses and advisers, governing by proxy. Indeed,” he blushes, “I rather suspect that the Duke may have had me killed if you had rejected me and ruined the peace negotiations in the process.”

“Oh dear,” Jenny says.

“The rest of the story, if you please,” Vastra prompts.

“Yes, I suppose I should,” Kefiz agrees. “It was easy enough to tell my servants to leave me undisturbed and then simply slip out before the cruiser took off. Sneaking aboard the ship for Camline was a little harder, but it was easy enough to bribe one of the ship's crew and let me take his place for the voyage. I stole away to your home, my love, to explain everything, and, if I might, court you on my own merits. I have so little to offer, but—”

“Except your practiced diplomatic skills,” Eruwyn points out. “I rather think I can find a place for you, should you want it.” She smiles. “Other than at my side, that is.”

“I should like none better,” he replies.

A cloud passes over Eruwyn's face. “I have had lovers in the past, you know,” she admits. “I always meant to tell you, though whenever I saw your face so happy, I could not bear to speak of it. But now I feel I must.”

Kefiz shrugs. “I myself am a widower with two young ones of my own. Indeed, that was part of the reason that I agreed to serve as the Duke's body-double: while the pay is good, the work is risky. Wealth would do me no good if I could not spend it, but if it meant that my children were taken care of...” 

“Your sense of duty to those who depend on you is admirable,” Eruwyn tells him. “How did your wife pass? If it is not too much to intrude.”

“A plague swept through, almost eight years gone now. I was working as a ship's mechanic on a six-months' tour, and our children were visiting my sister and her children.” He lets out a ragged sigh. “It took one in every seven people in the city before a cure was found. It is an old wound, and mostly healed, but it still causes some pain when jabbed.”

Eruwyn bows her head. “I am sorry.”

“It is not your fault, my lady. Come, let us return to more pleasant topics.”

“Will you still marry me, then?” Eruwyn asks.

“Of course,” Kefiz replies.

***

Several hours later, Eruwyn and Kefiz step out onto a dais. The news of a royal proclamation is sudden, but not entirely unexpected, given Her Majesty's impending nuptials. The crowd gathers, eager for the latest details or some new declaration of love between the smitten nobles, swaying with excitement like grass in the breeze. Indeed, a few voices in the crowd suggest that they have decided to simply have the wedding now, for whatever reason. But every voice drops to a whisper as Eruwyn begins to speak. “My dear subjects,” she begins, and the crowd rumbles with cheering and applause. “I regret to inform you that, due to circumstances entirely beyond my control, I will be unable to marry the Duke of Feldak.” The crowd begins shouting, panicked, angry, confused, not least because Eruwyn's face remains so tranquil. She waits for silence, then requests it politely, and finally demands it. This, at last, gets the crowd's attention: Eruwyn is not known for angry outbursts, and her voice cuts through the din even without the aid of an amplifier. “I will instead marry this man, Kefiz, who has, for some years, served as the body-double for Duke Zaffir. It was he I courted and he I loved, and so it will be he I marry,” she proclaims. “He is as brave, talented, and devoted as any I might find, and as worthy a representative of his planet as well,” she continues. “And so our peace treaty with Feldak will be signed tomorrow after my wedding to Kefiz, a happy event which will both please me greatly and serve as a symbol. A symbol that neither love nor peace recognize race nor class, gender nor political difference, that true love and true peace see past these petty obstacles to that which is good within each of us.” Eruwyn smiles sublimely. “I bid you good day, my people.”

A clamor goes out at once for more information in light of the stunning news, and the Princess's attendants have a very busy few hours answering questions and providing reassurances as Eruwyn withdraws. “Well, that went well,” she observes. “No interstellar war started.”

“Another job well done, eh, madame?” Jenny observes. 

This observation sparks Eruwyn. “Yes, indeed. I suppose I should find some way to repay you.” Her face suddenly falls, and she turns lime green around her cheeks. “I don't suppose that standard galactic credits or Camlinear lira will be worth much of anything to you.”

“We were more than happy to assist you,” Vastra begins, trying to smooth things over.

“No, no, I insist,” Eruwyn replies. Seconds later, she claps her petite, long-fingered hands. “I know,” she announces. “You two are getting married, are you not? What if I hired you a venue and a restaurant for afterward, and took care of the flowers and cake and everything else? You won't have to worry about a thing,” she promises.

Jenny shares a glance with Vastra. She is utterly blown out of the water by the offer, which is far more generous than they would ever charge for an afternoon's work, and without any fighting to boot (much to Strax's dismay). “Madame, I'm not sure we—”

“Nonsense,” Eruwyn says, “I already have the contacts for my own ceremony, and I can afford it. This is the least I can do for you. I shall fetch you in a week's time, unless you would prefer to stay as my guests; I am certain you could find enough things to troubleshoot to earn your keep, if that troubles you.”

Jenny and Vastra are still weighing the offer when a familiar wheezing noise interrupts them, and they have to very quickly convince the natives not to panic as the door swings open. “One of these days he'll learn not to park it in the middle of the office of the local head of state,” pronounces the voice of River Song.

“Hello, everyone!” the Doctor says, beaming. “Hello, Eruwyn! Looking good, I must say.”

“You won't have to worry about him making a mess, I promise,” River tells her.

“River! Spoilers!”

“Can't I bend the rules for a wedding present?”

“Ah, yes!” the Doctor exclaims, tugging on his bowtie, “Am I in time for the wedding?”

“It's tomorrow,” Eruwyn says, enthusiasm tempered slightly by her ex-lover's sudden appearance. 

“Cutting it a bit closer than I'd thought,” he replies, scrunching up his face. “Still, enough time to change into the tux.”

“She's getting married tomorrow,” Jenny corrects him. “We're getting married a week from now.”

“Splendid! That's more like it! Told you.” The Doctor points an accusing finger at River.

“It's a good thing I tuned her up,” River replies as Amy and Rory step out, followed by Anaya, Henry, and Nellie. The young trio is rather in awe of the whole experience, wondering first at the TARDIS, and secondly at an alien planet.

“Where is Dr. Doyle?” Vastra asks delicately.

“Does he suffer from narcolepsy, by any chance?” the Doctor asks.

“Not that he's told us,” Jenny replies. “I think we'd have noticed if he passed out regularly.”

“Told you he'd fainted,” River says with an eye roll. “Seemed mighty surprised by the destination. For about a second,” she quips.

“I didn't know you hadn't told him yet!” the Doctor splutters in his defense. “I certainly didn't realize he hadn't guessed! I mean, look at how lovey-dovey you two are,” he points out. Jenny blushes, but doesn't step away from Vastra.

“Sweet goddess,” Vastra murmurs. 

“Well, come on then, I'll have him perked up by the time we get to the ceremony.” He trades blank looks with Jenny and Vastra. “You are still getting married, aren't you? I do love an excuse for dancing.”

“That makes one of us, you clown,” Amy laughs. 

Eruwyn laughs. “I'll see you all in a week, then.”

“We're getting married in a week,” Jenny says as she steps, dumbfounded, onto the TARDIS.

“Right now, yes,” the Doctor agrees. “Now,” he corrects as he dances about the console, “you're getting married in twelve hours. Off you pop, good night's sleep. No getting pregnant!” He calls after them. “Don't even think about it. That goes for the lot of you.”

“Is that why you keep giving us bunkbeds?” Rory asks. The Doctor blanches. 

“I'll have a talk with her, Dad,” River promises, and the Doctor turns Flesh-white. 

“Next time I take a couple aboard the TARDIS, which will be never, it'll be a nice, safe, non-procreating couple.” 

“So, when are we getting off?” River asks, eyebrow arched.

“Not in front of your parents,” the Doctor replies.

“Sorry, did you two just successfully make an innuendo?” Rory asks. 

“I'm sort of impressed,” Amy chimes in.

The Doctor throws up his hands in despair. “Good night, Ponds!”

***

“So,” Doyle began, once he had recovered the next morning. “They're getting married,” he asks Henry and Strax, who were getting dressed in the men's wing of the TARDIS wardrobe. 

“Yes, sir,” Strax affirms. 

“To each other?” Doyle pokes.

“Yes, sir,” Strax confirms.

“I see,” Doyle notes. “This does rather explain the opinions of a certain segment of Holmes and Watson's more fervent readers.” He turns beet red. “I suppose Vastra isn't a Christian,” he asks.

“No, sir; she is a Silurian.”

“I honestly don't know what religious beliefs she has,” Henry clarifies. To tell the truth, he hadn't thought to ask.

“I suppose I should have guessed that she wasn't human,” Doyle allows. “The scales, the skull structure, and the tongue are all far beyond the known range of human mutation and deformity. Let alone the knowledge of alien species...” He mops his brow. “Well, as we approach the 20th century and its dawn of change, I suppose that I must change with it. All this certainly doesn't seem to bother you, does it, lad?”

“No,” Henry replies. “Seen enough misery in the world without heaping more on the plates of good people.”

“Wise for one so young,” Doyle decides. “Well, I certainly shan't rock the boat. Come, gentlemen, we have a wedding to prepare for.”

***

Jenny had been nervous all morning, the way she hadn't been nervous before a case in a long time. Her knees had shook so bad she'd had to sit while combing her hair, and she could barely eat. But now she was standing at the back of an alien chapel, waiting to walk down the aisle behind Anaya and Nellie, strewing flowers, and Strax, carrying the rings. (It had been quite the task to convince him that he was just carrying them and that this was not an armed escort mission.) Well, she thought, looking up at Vastra, gorgeous as ever in full dress uniform, standing next to a gangly alien priest, here goes everything.

The ceremony (carefully crafted to be binding per both human and Silurian traditions) passed in a bit of a blur for Jenny, and, to be frank, she couldn't tell if there was a dry eye in the (small) house or not as they went from song to prayer to reciting their vows until the priest recited their final blessing. “Your people will be my people, and I will go with you all the days of my life. I pronounce you married.” With that, Vastra takes Jenny gingerly and kisses her, as though being married has somehow made her more fragile. Everyone cheers anyway, and Jenny smiles dopily.

Later, at the reception, when they are all sitting around one large table, Amy asks cheekily, “So, where are you going on honeymoon?”

Jenny blinks. Somehow this detail has escaped her. “I don't rightly know? Where did you want to go, madame?”

“Perhaps France?” she offers, hazily. 

“Provence is terrific this time of year,” Amy assures them.

“Better not,” the Doctor cautions them. “Might run into us, cause a paradox. Everywhere else should be fine, though.” 

“Why didn't we get a charming Victorian honeymoon?” Amy nags with a wink.

“Oh, I don't know; maybe because I was too busy saving existence that day,” the Doctor replies with a wave of his hand. “I'll take you to the Savoy for your anniversary one of these years if you like.”

“That's...quite nice of you,” Rory admits.

“So how does it feel to be married?” Nellie asks.

“Much the same as it always does,” Vastra says.

“Which is to say, wonderful,” Jenny agrees, and the table cheers, and toasts the happy couple. 

***

One week later...

The cabdriver helps Jenny and Vastra wrestle their trunk from the carriage as Anaya waves feebly from the porch. “How was your honeymoon?” she calls hopefully.

“Busy,” Vastra says, punctuating the word with a most unladylike grunt. “Serial killer on Monday, alien slavers on Tuesday, and a mad scientist on Wednesday.”

“Tell you all about it over tea,” Jenny promises her.

“Sounds dreadful,” Anaya notes sympathetically. She holds the door for them as they manage the trunk between them.

“Oh, I did not say that we did not enjoy ourselves,” Vastra corrects her. “Thrill of the hunt and all that. But we did spend all of Thursday in bed, and not entirely from exhaustion.”

“Madame!” If possible, Jenny thinks, Vastra has gotten more lecherous since they have gotten married. “We shan't tell you about that over tea.”

“Bother,” Anaya chirps cheekily. “I'll just have to use that time to fill you in on the alien invasion we sorted out while you were cooling your heels. More of a misunderstanding, really.”

“Gracious!” Vastra nearly drops her end of the trunk. “Yes, most definitely tea.”

**Author's Note:**

> The plot of this story draws heavily from A Scandal in Bohemia and A Case of Identity. I just knew I had to have the Doctor, who is constantly flirting with famous women, in the role of Irene Adler, _the_ woman. My wonderful beta and beloved, Imaginary Golux, suggested the use of A Case of Identity's plot twist.
> 
> The title is taken from the biblical story of Naomi and Ruth. The verses are often used in wedding ceremonies, despite being about a woman and her mother-in-law. 
> 
> Not too many historical notes. Victoria and Albert were first cousins, which made family reunions convenient, if a little awkward. The Wikipedia article on fandom suggests the existence of Holmes fanfic as early as 1887, and that the word fandom dates to 1903, so the idea that Doyle is aware of Holmes/Watson shippers isn't as anachronistic as it might be. 
> 
> Contains nods and references to The Runaway Bride, The Wedding of Sarah Jane Smith, The End of Time, The Big Bang, The Impossible Astronaut, A Good Man Goes to War, Vincent & the Doctor, and Pond Life. This takes place between Let's Kill Hitler and The Wedding of River Song for the Doctor, so he is not referencing his own wedding in the litany of nuptials he gives.


End file.
